


Reparation

by SharpestKnife



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Apologies, Crying, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Incest, M/M, Pseudo-Incest, Tears, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:21:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon was entirely too rough that night. Robb had cried a little then, and Jon swore that he would never let his emotions take him that far again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reparation

**Author's Note:**

> [LitaJ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LitaJ/pseuds/LitaJ) told me that the above excerpt from [Implosion](http://archiveofourown.org/works/927468) made her go sadface. This fic explores the repercussions of that night, but no modern AU this time. Hello, Winterfell, it's great to be back!

Jon Snow despises two things with certainty: Theon Greyjoy, and the sight of Robb crying. He wished he could blame one for the other, but Greyjoy wasn't even with them when the sound of Robb whimpering had pierced through the haze of desire. Jon hadn't noticed when Robb's sighs and moans had turned into small, pleading cries. He felt dread pound in his chest when he realized that this had all been his fault. 

He had been too rough, yet again, and this time the anger was too severe. It had worked its way out of Jon's body like some feral spirit, latched its teeth onto Robb's flesh, and now his brother was weeping, and Jon didn't know how to make it stop.

It wasn't a child's bawling, just restrained sobs spilling into his fist. There were only a few tears, but they were tiny, and somehow jagged, and Jon wilted when he thought that they might hurt so much more to cry out. Robb's body was curled into a little ball, his limbs jerking and soft whimpers leaking from his mouth. He looked more vulnerable, more fragile than Jon had ever seen, and that made it so much worse.

Jon was stunned, for a moment, his mouth open in horror. He wanted desperately to touch him, but he knew that the feel of his hand on Robb's skin would only make the tears fall faster. He pulled himself slowly out of Robb, and when he heard the relief in his brother's low moan, Jon knew that he had done something that bordered on the unforgivable.

Without thinking, Jon ran his hands over Robb's back, and he learned his fear was justified when Robb flinched at his touch.

"Robb. Gods, please Robb. Please, stop crying." 

He watched Robb's shoulders tremble, the curls on his head faintly shaking with each muffled sob, and Jon swallowed back the great hulking lump of regret that swelled in his throat. He pressed his face into the crook of Robb's neck, and when he felt him pull away, his body hunching with what seemed to be fear, Jon truly wished he was dead.

He ran a hand down Robb's back, hoping that it would help to soothe and to sate, but he was pulling away again, his body just balanced on the edge of the bed.

"Robb, please," he said. "I didn't mean to hurt you. Don't, Robb. Please."

There was no answer. Jon couldn't bear the sight of him, Robb, _his_ Robb, twisting in pain, irresponsive. It hurt badly enough to see him this way, but knowing that it was his fault, that he had broken the dam that held in Robb's tears, was more terrible still. Jon watched as he shuddered, knowing Robb wouldn't turn to meet his eyes, not like this. Every whimper was a knife in his chest, and every tremble a flaying line in his heart.

He laid there, no longer caring that Robb wouldn't answer, half-whispering urgent apologies in an endless murmur, as many as he could muster in between the softest kisses he could make against his brother's back. He didn't know how much time had passed, only that it had taken far too long for Robb to stop crying. 

His breathing was different now, no longer stuttered, but deep in a familiar rhythm. Jon bent over his shoulder and found Robb's face loosened and soft in sleep, but his cheeks were stained with the tracks of faded tears, his lip still curled. Jon rose from the bed at last, his limbs heavy as he pulled on his clothes. When he bent down to kiss his brow, Robb flinched away. _Even in sleep_ , he thought. Jon felt his heart shatter.

As he shut the door to Robb's chamber and began the long, painful trek back to his own, Jon was aware that something between them had been broken. It would take a miracle to repair, all the fire the world has ever known to reforge, and he didn't know where or how to begin.

*******

When Jon returned to his chamber the next night, Robb was already there, sitting on the bed, waiting for him. He looked well, nothing of the broken boy from last evening, and his eyes glimmered with fondness at the sight of Jon's face.

 _He's pretending that nothing is wrong_ , Jon thought. The knife in his heart drove in deeper.

Jon shut the door, and Robb was smiling again, his hand already moving over his tunic. Jon thought he saw hesitation when he approached, saw a stiffening in Robb's body, as if he wanted to step back. Jon caught his hands loosely by the wrists, pressed their brows together, and he shook his head. He felt his heart wrench again when Robb's face washed over with surprise, and there, just behind his eyes, relief. 

He pulled Robb to the bed and held him, cradling his face into his chest. Robb sputtered, protesting half-heartedly through a cascade of confused laughter. Jon didn't answer, just held him closer, squeezing hard enough to tell Robb he was sorry, but never hard enough to hurt. 

He pushed Robb down onto the bed, softly, and nuzzled his face into every part of him he could find, every surface he could reach without breaking their embrace. He felt Robb's fingers wrap over his cheek, pulling his face to his, and Jon resisted. He felt lips press into his hair, landing light on his scalp, and through the forest of curls, he heard Robb whisper.

"I forgive you."

Jon didn't believe him.

*******

The kitchens were quiet. Lord and Lady Stark were leaving Winterfell, and their people had flocked to see them off. Jon was glad for the solitude. It left him room for his thoughts, and an opportunity to take what he needed.

He hadn't meant to hurt Robb. Truly, he hadn't. But things were different when they were caught in the passion of rutting. He hadn't thought to consider that, perhaps, Robb didn't like the way he was just a little too harsh. Perhaps Robb didn't like it when teeth clamped over his neck, when Jon held him hard against the bed, thumbs pushing tiny bruises into his wrists.

He wanted to think that it wasn't his fault, but Jon knew better than to lie to himself. It definitely wasn't Robb's fault. Robb hadn't chosen to be the heir, he had been born into it. He hadn't chosen for Jon to enter the world through the womb of a different mother. None of them had chosen any of this, and still Jon's body thought it was best to conquer. 

And to rape. _I'm not Greyjoy_. _I'm nothing like him_ , and even as the thought flitted through his mind, Jon grimaced with the possibility that he shared something with the ward after all, a low, burning line of envy and entitlement that linked them even as they seethed with mutual loathing.

Jon's stare lingered on the tray of honey cakes cooling on the table. He was nothing like Greyjoy, but still he had snuck into the kitchen, to take and to pillage. But this was different, he thought. The ironborn took for power, for wealth and gain. This he was doing for Robb. He comforted himself with a happier comparison, that he was not so different from his littlest brothers, and he scurried away and down the halls while clutching a batch of still-steaming treats.

He knew that Robb was seeing his parents off, so he slipped into his brother's chamber. He left the tray of cakes on the bed, trying to remember whether Robb still enjoyed them as much as he did. He thought of snatching one for himself before he left, but then the tray wouldn't be complete. _All for him_ , Jon thought, as he hurried to join the masses gathered at the gates.

That evening, when Robb crept into Jon's chamber, there was a difference in his smile. His lips were sweeter when they kissed, and sticky. When they laid down to sleep, Robb's embrace was just a little bit tighter.

*******

Jon scowled as he rubbed his fingers together. They were tacky from sap, and tinged with green. He scratched at his palm, thinking that perhaps he may have touched something poisonous by accident.

He had spent the day stalking the grounds around Winterfell, finding whatever blooms grew in the summer and pulling them by the root, or breaking them gently at the stem. He found himself apologizing to the broken body of each little plant, and he scolded himself for doing so.

It was difficult to keep his movements away from prying eyes. If he were a girl, he would have taken a basket, singing merrily as he gathered the pretty little things. But he wasn't, so he had to tuck whatever he could find into the folds of his cloak. 

He spread them out on his bed, and he was worried when he saw that some of their petals were bruised, their stems doubly broken from their sorry adventure between the folds of his clothing. He thought there might be too many, and he reminded himself that there could never be enough for Robb, and he tied the awkward pile of flowers together with a leather thong. If he were a girl, he would have used ribbon or lace, but he wasn't, so this would have to do.

Now they were in the Great Hall. Lady Stark was still away, and Jon didn't have to sit at the low tables, but he did so he could watch Robb's face in safety. Jon had come early, when the hall was near empty, to casually dump the flowers at the head of the high table, where he knew Robb would sit as the lord in their father's stead. The flowers looked miserable from this distance, a horrid, haphazard pile of color, and Jon gripped at the table with anxious fingers.

There were enough people to see Robb redden when he found the flowers at his place. The hall filled with laughter, the sound of men teasing and taunting as they demanded the name of Robb's hidden admirer. Robb had blushed so furiously that his face very nearly matched the color of his hair. Jon thought he saw Robb's eyes flicker to his table. Now Robb was staring at the miserable pile of flowers, the look on his face one of utter embarrassment.

The noise came to a roaring head when Greyjoy began to thread some of the flowers through Robb's hair. Their siblings were in on the joke as well, and Jon thought that Sansa might break in half if she didn't stop holding in her laughter. Greyjoy was leading the hall through a bawdy song now, his arm draped over Robb's shoulder, something about a bear and a maiden. He ended the song with a sloppy kiss to Robb's cheek. Jon didn't mind, especially when he saw Robb grimace and push him away.

Robb didn't come to Jon's chamber that night. He wondered if the gesture had been too much. When he came to visit Robb later that week, he found the flowers hanging by the hearth, their scent and their color faded, still drying into a brittle mess on the wall. Robb had said nothing when Jon came to bed. He just buried his head in his pillow, his face flushing red and hard.

*******

The lord and the lady were still away, and Jon didn't think he would ever come to miss them, especially not her. Still, their mere presence brought order to the castle, and Jon was beginning to feel badly for his brother. Robb was away again, with Greyjoy at his side, attending to the affairs of smallfolk. 

It was certainly fine practice for the day when he would rule Winterfell, but Robb was so tired all the time now. Jon cringed as he thought of his littlest brothers. Their parents were gone, and the oldest of their litter was, too, and he didn't relish the idea of having Old Nan tuck them into bed yet again. He gathered them both, setting Bran and Rickon into Robb's bed, and when she barreled in to protest, Jon shooed her away.

The boys had demanded a story, and Jon flustered. What did he know about stories? He considered getting Sansa, or perhaps Arya to help, frowning at the thought of the first's sickly sweet fables of love, and the other's budding appetite for violence. No, he would have to do this himself. He settled for making up a story that sat somewhere in between.

There was once, he said, a beautiful princess, with bright blue eyes and sparkling auburn hair. Rickon pouted instantly, and Bran complained, because princesses were always blonde. Jon reminded them about the color of Sansa's hair, and they hushed. 

The princess, he said, was in love with a poor sellsword, a man that he generously described as strong, and quietly handsome, with curly dark hair. He furrowed his brow when the boys moved to object again, and trundled on when they fell silent.

The sellsword, he said, loved the princess too, but he knew that she was afraid of him. She thought he was coarse, and brutish, and rough. What did he know about courtship and castles? What did he know about tenderness and love?

Jon stumbled through his invented tale, and told his brothers how the sellsword traveled through dangerous distant lands to find gifts for his princess, slew beasts and wicked men to protect her, and at last the princess saw that his love was pure. They married, he said, and as Bran and Rickon dropped dead into sleep from sheer boredom, Jon said that they lived very, very happily ever after.

He felt a draft, and a keen sense that someone was watching him. He realized that he had forgotten to shut the door. He turned to find Robb leaning there, a curious smile on his lips. Robb closed the door, then the distance between them. 

"I'm a princess then, am I?" Robb asked, his fingers tickling the curls at Jon's neck. Jon felt himself redden, and he stared hard at the bed covers, willing his body to melt and slip through the cracks in the floor. He bristled when Robb kissed him lightly on the cheek, chastely, as a brother would, and watched as he kissed Bran and Rickon in turn. Robb turned to Jon, his face weary, but brimming with affection. 

Four brothers lay in the bed that night, the youngest in between the two who shared a love of a different sort. Robb's hand stretched out to find Jon's, and their fingers locked as they pulled their arms low against the snoring puddle of warmth. Even with their brothers between them, Jon swore he could feel every beat of Robb's heart.

*******

It was late at night, or perhaps early in the morning, when Jon woke to find Robb straddled above him. He blinked sleep away and blushed when he noticed how Robb seemed so comfortable. It's as if he'd been sat there watching Jon sleep.

Robb's smile was fond, his hand planted lightly on Jon's chest. He raised fingers to tousle Jon's hair as a greeting. His eyes were searching, and his mouth moved slowly as he whispered a question.

"Why have you been so kind, Jon?"

Jon leaned into Robb's hand, savored its warmth and its strength.

"Because I'm sorry," he said. "Because I want you to know that I'm sorry."

The smile dropped from Robb's lips, and he bent forward, touching their foreheads together.

"You're a fool, Jon Snow," he said, his mouth paused at an aching distance from Jon's lips. "A handsome, clumsy, and wonderful fool. You think you can win me with presents?"

He felt Robb begin to grind with painful steadiness into his hips, and Jon moaned. He wondered how long it had been since they'd done this, and decided that it didn't matter. He nearly pushed upward in a sudden sharp thrust, but restrained himself. The fear was still there, the fear of hurting, then losing Robb.

Jon's voice was hoarse when he spoke. "Have I done enough?"

Robb nuzzled at his cheek, and Jon sighed at the faint touch of his lashes. "It will never be enough."

Words fled the room in that moment. Robb closed his mouth over Jon's, lips brushing and teasing, and again Jon held back the urge to nip and to bite. His body longed to worship with brutal force, but Jon wouldn't let it. He found that he couldn't all the same, his limbs limp and weakened by Robb's touch.

It was so strange, knowing his brother was stronger, broader in many ways, yet still so gentle, and soft. His fingers were rough, but when they glided over Jon's skin, he imagined the sleek touch of petals, or silk. Jon's body was raging to buck and to stutter, but here, underneath his brother's overwhelming warmth, his urges meant nothing. He would let Robb lead the way on this journey. 

Robb pressed deeper, and Jon threw his head back when he realized that his brother had already taken his hardness inside of him. Robb's face was calm, and still, save for the fire that raged behind his eyes. He threaded his fingers through Jon's hair, pulling as if they were reins. He began to ride.

Jon twisted his face into his pillow at the sensation. Robb's pace was infuriatingly slow. His patience, the discipline of his strokes, was punishing, but rewarding in its own way. Where Jon would rut and thrust furiously, Robb rode with measured cadence and distance, up and down the entirety of Jon's length, sitting far against his hips to take in his fullness, then rising, almost to the tip of Jon's cock.

A hungry moan tumbled around the chamber, and Jon shivered when he heard the urgent plea in his own voice. Robb was whining softly into his ear. Every cry was a confession, every groan an ironclad promise, that this thing inside him, this part of Jon, no, every part of Jon, would belong to him, forever. Jon murmured in wordless agreement, his hips bucking to meet Robb's torturous rhythm, hands gliding over every bit of Robb he could reach, his mind screaming that this, and that, and those over there, it all belonged to him, and them, and each other.

The terrifying slowness, the overwhelming contact, the depth and the tightness of it all, finally sent the heat in Jon's hips roaring into a blazing fire. His eyes flew up to meet Robb's, begging, and he whimpered in gratitude when Robb gave the tiniest of nods. 

He pushed himself, all of himself, into Robb, joining their bodies as one. Fear, guilt, anger, and more rushed out of him, and he bit on his fist to stifle a scream that threatened to wake the entire world. His hand flew down to Robb's throbbing hardness. He wrapped strong fingers over his length, pulling firmly, until Robb spent into searing droplets over Jon's belly and chest. He looked up at the silence to find Robb's body tensed and perfectly still, his teeth clenched and eyes tightly shut.

Jon panted for some time, his mind buzzing back into the chamber, to the crackling of the hearth fire and the sound of Robb desperately heaving for air. They were still locked together, Jon's seed dripping into a wet mass at his belly, but Robb didn't make to move. Jon didn't mind, and it seemed that Robb didn't either.

A hand came down to swirl at the wetness on Jon's torso, tracing at the ridges of his chest and his belly. Jon looked up, and Robb was smiling again.

"Flowers and sweets and favors. Honestly." White teeth grinned at him in the firelight. "Are you courting me, Jon Snow?"

The blood rushed to Jon's face, and he looked away. "Don't be stupid." He bit on his lip, something like disappointment surging in his chest. "I'll stop if you hate it so much."

Blue eyes sang with mirth, and when Robb bent down, lips lingering just above Jon's mouth, his words came mingled with tenderness, and an edge of conviction. "Never stop." 

Jon's body thrilled with a bloom of affection, and longing, and love, things that he could never speak, only show. He pushed his face upward, opening his mouth to greet his brother's. This song had been different, but beautiful in its way, and Jon thought he might even get used to it. 

He couldn't say if Robb's way was better than his, but he did know that their urges and manners would meet, some day, somewhere in the middle, and everything would be perfect. The thought made Jon laugh, clear and ringing into Robb's mouth, because for all he cared, everything already was.


End file.
